


Becoming the Case

by Consulted_moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and More Angst, Blood and Violence, Dark Fanfic, Killer!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Consulted_moriarty/pseuds/Consulted_moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings were always the same, either a silent flat or a pumped Sherlock ready for a new case. But John knew this morning was different from the moment his eyes opened. And the moment he received a phone call from an unknown caller. Only John knew that voice...and he knew who that voice belonged to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Identifying the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine, they belong to the show Sherlock and BBC. This fanfiction is mine, but I do not hold rights nor own the characters and so forth. Just a story including them, yeah?  
> This is my first publication of my Fanfiction, some tips and pointers are very much loved! Please be gentle, I'm still learning, yeah? Obviously an angsty and painful piece, if you do not enjoy it, just slide away and no hard feelings! :D

Awaking bright and early was something John did now. Military history aside, he was used to either waking early to Sherlock's cries of "A case, John! Up, up! Let us go!" Or waking up to make sure the Consulting detective was...well, still alive. A hiatus of casework was, what John concluded, Sherlock's only weakness. How the other man could go days without sleep and food was beyond John, and he dare not try to understand Sherlock.  
The first oddity of this morning was the eery silence flooding the flat, for Sherlock was nowhere in sight. No scribbles upon a note left to a counter, no traces of him doing _anything_  other than just up and leaving. In fact, John became more befuddled at the sight of Sherlock's coat and scarf. But it wasn't his business, the detective was sure to call and fill him in eventually.  
A quick visit to the restroom was in order before John made his way to the kitchen, nearing six in the morn. Like a skilled surgeon making the rhythmic slice into flesh (as those memories often ticked in his mind), John's habit set off without his mind trailing along. His hands moved in practiced actions to fill the kettle and set the water to boil, while his mind wandered to Sherlock. Not for any reason other than simply wondering where the detective had wondered off to. He was sure to not be at the Yard, as his last spat with Anderson left some boundaries to be laid. And John could only imagine that the only other place he could be was a crime scene. Or perhaps Mycroft snatched him up. John chuckled to himself, that brother rivalry always going on whether it was public or simply telepathically passed between them.  
From the sitting room, he could hear the unmistakable buzzing of his phone, one which he had put on vibrate because..well, there wasn't a case. He hadn't been needed. The water was moments from boiling, but he hadn't the time to fix his cuppa before catching the device prior to it's final buzz. And so he strode into the siting room, fetching his phone. Unknown Caller. He answered.  
"I killed someone."  
Well, what a way to start off his morning. Aside from his heart palpitating violently (the screeching kettle did wonders to calm him down) and his breathing halted, he was actually quite okay. John finally inhaled, convinced that there was a certain amount of time acceptable to remain silent after someone told you they had killed, and he just ran out of that time.  
"I think you have the wrong number." And I think you aren't aware that I work with the great Sherlock Holmes and we have the Yard at our beck and call so maybe you ought to hang up, he silently added. What an ignorant choice on this caller's part, calling the flatmate of the best detective in all of London. Perhaps the world.  
"John." That voice, he knew that voice. He knew exactly who that voice belonged to, though it reeked of broken whimpers and silent hisses and _emotion_.  
"Sherlock?" He breathed out, pressing the phone harder to his ear as if he could hear the man who only made a mistake. Sherlock inhaled, John assumed through his nose as if clearing his mind. There was a just amount of silence, and the answer was answered without Sherlock needing to say anything. Because, under the front of shaky panic in his tone, a hint of absolute clarity was shown underneath like a vein of silver among rock.  
"And I can't stop." He added, causing John's heart to completely shudder.  
"Hold on." He replied, nearly tossing his phone to his armchair and walking back into the kitchen. Pulling the burning kettle off, the flat sunk back into an uncomfortable silence; and John burned his hand trying to throw the kettle into the sink in attempt to quickly return to his phone, but he cared not. Striding back into the sitting room, he brought the device back to his ear.  
"Sherlock, explain this." John spoke out of terror and agitation. He found himself trying to sit, using his shoulder to keep his phone to ear as his good hand rubbed over the burned skin of the other.  
"I don't know what happened. I snapped and I can't stop." Sherlock spoke, his phone causing what sounded to be his voice cracking.  
"Okay, it's alright. Just come home, yeah?" John replied through furrowed eyebrows. It most certainly was not okay, but he couldn't judge Sherlock until he was able to sit the man down and get the full story.  
"C-cant." Oh. It wasn't the phone. Sherlock's voice was broken and grim and that's why John didn't pick up that it was him after the first sentence.  
"Come home, Sherlock." John repeated, now up and pacing over to face the window. "We'll talk it through. We can fix this, I know you must have simply acted out of self-defense." John tried comforting, aware he was playing on a very thin line. He had seen post traumatic stress disorder in many wounded before, as well as himself. And Sherlock's...run in with Moriarty could have simply lead to this condition and he was out of control. Because, what if it hadn't been out of protection? What if Sherlock cold murdered?  
"I wouldn't have called if I wanted to come home." Sherlock spoke, seemingly a bit more clear now. "I called to warn you." John had nervously paced back to sit in his chair, eyes again tracing over the reddened skin of his burned palm.  
"Warn me of what?" Came the rather ignorant reply. John had a feeling he knew what, but he needed to hear Sherlock confirm it. Because, something in Sherlock's voice hinted that he would still come home. There had to be a way, the man may have been a bit off his game, but he was still Sherlock. John saw no reason that Sherlock would, well, avoid him. Unless...  
"I'm too dangerous to be around you."  
Well, there were several ways John could have replied to this. He could have simply stated "you won't hurt me" but he knew better. John _knew_  Sherlock and this was appearing to be out of control. He couldn't imagine Sherlock holding their "friendship" to a high enough level to not simply slaughter John. And so he went with the second, and shockingly colder, choice.  
"I can defend myself." The words came, no emotion falling behind because, dammit, John was a soldier and he could bloody well handle himself. Even if it was Sherlock. He had been to war and he had seen the look in a killer's eyes, Hell, he had seen the look in his own eyes. But he knew how to handle it.  
Right?   
"It's not that easy to stop me." His tone had shifted. John had presented a challenge and he realized it now. Sherlock was one to take the game, he had taken it with Moriarty and now he was taking it with John. The doctor's mouth was left agape, words not sure how to leave. The thought of those dreaded three years he had spent after the fall, John swallowed hard. He had just gotten Sherlock back, and now he was going to lose the Consulting Detective to...insanity? Had Moriarty really planted the correct 'seeds' to alter Sherlock forever?  
"Sherlock, come home. I won't call the Yard, we'll find an excuse for the person you murdered." There was no way he could bring Anderson or Lestrade into this. Not without Sherlock being locked up and the bodies being searched for. And he just couldn't do that without first knowing the whole story.  
" _Persons_." Sherlock corrected John.  
Ah, bloody Hell.  
"And I didn't leave any bodies nor hints to lead on the Yard. Don't assume me unskilled, John." He added with near disgust and borderline insanity.  
"Come home." John spoke again, this time softly and..weak? He felt exhausted, an ache burned in his leg and he'd love for a cuppa about now.  
There was a near dreaded silence on the line. At first, John felt Sherlock was considering his begging. Finally, the man appeared sane enough to even consider this. But then there came a shaky inhale heard through the device as clearly as it had been through John's other (and seemingly device free) ear.  
"I'm already here." Sherlock whispered, breath cold as he leaned over John from behind, sending dreaded chills down the doctor's neck.


	2. Standing for who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the second chapter of Becoming the Case, John begins to see Sherlock's true side. He begins to learn what the man has done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love reviews!

It is said that you can know a person inside and out, live with them your whole life and study them like a literature book...but you will never meet the true being until you see them in pain and faced with death. Because that, indeed, is when their true character shows.  
John had been to war. He had been carved of courage and strength-though it may not show-and he had been taught how to handle whatever was handed to him. Now facing a flatmate who had killed, John was questioning his morals. What lengths did he have to go to in order to save his life? Because it appeared Sherlock had no intentions of "playing a game".  
John, very slowly and gently, set down his phone on the armrest just for it to slip off and hit the ground. That was his opportunity, the device making a noise loud enough to snap Sherlock's attention, John flew from the armchair and spun around to face his friend. Watching Sherlock's attention go from the ground back up to meet John's eyes, his focused and crazed look shifted for but a moment.  
"Christ..." John mumbled, looking over Sherlock. Though the man was mostly hidden behind the armchair, John looked over his stained red shirt. Nearly all that warm purple had been sucked from the woven bonds and left to soak in what Sherlock must have bathed in. His hair was in a mess, curls launched about in no matter of order and his face was bruised black-from who John assumed was the victim-and dried scarlet appeared like dried trails of tears down Sherlock's cheeks.  
John nearly stumbled in attempt to leave the flat, his fight or flight instinct now in action. But he hesitated, if he couldn't handle Sherlock, who else could? His next option was looking towards a mass of books gathered on the floor. Third book down in the stack was larger and the center of the pages had been cut out to leave a small space for a quaint pistol. That idea was worse.  
"Looking for something?" A calm tone rose from Sherlock and John's eyes cast to the elevated hand. Alas, his pistol. John swallowed hard, inclining his head.  
"I wasn't going to kill you." He stated both nervously and bluntly. It was true, John hadn't the ability to ever pull a trigger on his friend.  
"I know." Sherlock breathed out, the pistol sliding down the fingers of his extended hand and slipping off to land in John's armchair. "Which is why I think I'm going to kill you." He swiftly moved out from behind the arm chair, approaching John.  
 _"Think"._  
John had a chance. Sherlock's look still wavered like some sort of fighting sanity was present. Sherlock reached a hand up, much like it was directed towards clasping John's neck. The doctor inhaled sharply, his own hand coming up to roughly swat away Sherlock's.  
"Back off." John warned, already thinking of ways to counter and perhaps throw his own punch. His advantages? Sherlock's face was bruised, hitting it again could easily double the pain and send him staggering. John assumed some bruising was prominent on his side as well, Sherlock was carrying himself with a wince in his left step. But the wince was directed to his torso, rather than leg. Still, it couldn't hurt for John to throw a kick there, better to try anyway given he hadn't anything else to work off of.  
"Or what?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side, a sparkle in his eye. He leaned in, and John froze like a possum with eagle overhead. "I owe you, John. I owe you a fall." Sherlock taunted in a light tone.  
John's throat went tight. That wasn't something Sherlock would say, then again, all he had done wasn't him. No...this was...this was someone else. Someone who must have...put ideas into Sherlock's head? But who gave him the idea to joke about his fall?  
"You owe me nothing." John countered in a weak voice. He cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. "You owe me nothing, Sherlock." John explained more loudly, narrowing his eyes and clenching his fists.  
"You're going to die." Sherlock stated in his most antagonizing tone yet. John swallowed hard.  
"Why?" He couldn't help but ask. Sherlock's hands came to grasp John's shoulders and he leaned in close.  
"Why? Because that's what people **DO**."  
John's heart stopped.  
All along, be it the criminal here or not, Sherlock was still affected. The ideas had been planted and now John was going to die because literal Moriarty was still alive and taking victims.  
Sherlock's grip turned harsh as he shoved John to a wall, pinning him there.  
"This isn't you!" John cried out, bringing his leg between them and kicking Sherlock to stumble a few steps back and ultimately let go of John. The doctor pressed forward, grabbing Sherlock by the bloody shirt and kicking his legs out from under him. Bless it that the Detective was too out of it to seem to plan ahead. John fell down to spin Sherlock onto his stomach, bringing his arm behind his back and up, freezing the man with a whimper in pain.  
"This isn't you." John breathed out, he looked at Sherlock's free hand just to see it grab hold of a pin from the coffee table. Quicker than John could have moved out of the way, the pinpoint punctured his trousers and stabbed his thigh. John let go of Sherlock to grab and remove the pin in a cry of pain. Sherlock flipped back over scrambling back towards John's chair and the gun. John looked up, eyebrows raising and eyes widening. He lurched forward, adrenaline now too much to think of the pain in his leg. His fist hit Sherlock's face hard enough to make Sherlock's elbows buckle and he lied back on the ground. John froze, noting no sudden reaction presenting from Sherlock.  
Unconscious.  
John sighed, shakily running a hand through his hair and glad Mrs. Hudson hadn't been home.  
But, for now the second time, his heart violently stuttered. _Was_  Mrs. Hudson home? Did Sherlock get to her? John scrambled up and out of their room, moving to Mrs. Hudson's small home. "Mrs. Hudson?" He called out, looking around and moving with an obvious limp. She suddenly appeared from around a corner and caused John to jolt and curse.  
"What is going on up there, John?" She spoke quickly with wide eyes. "Sounds like someone was playing too rough." John both blushed at the comment and managed a weak laugh.  
"Sherlock's having a bad day." John moved to step back. Wrong move. His limp was shown.  
"Are you okay, John?" Mrs. Hudson spoke up, eyes narrowing.  
"Yes..a bad day for me as well." He added before turning and moving back upstairs. The drain of his adrenaline caused John to move slowly, almost drugged-like. He looked down at his trousers, seeing a darker color growing in his left thigh. Sherlock had pierced skin, that was for sure. John's hand rested over his thigh as he came back into the sitting room.  
He froze.  
Sherlock wasn't still on the ground. Of course. And John knew precisely where he was, beside the door he had just walked through. But he hadn't the time to dodge, a figure slammed into his back and he groaned as he toppled to the ground with weight atop him. John wiggled under Sherlock to turn onto his back, looking up just as the Detective's hands closed around his neck.  
"Too easy." Sherlock teased, leaning close to John's face. The doctor's eyes looked around, realizing how close they were sent towards his armchair. One of his hands grasped Sherlock's wrist, attempting to pry free to catch some air (as his lungs had lost it during the breathtaking fall) while his other hand reached onto his seat. Sherlock appeared too transfixed in John's choked coughs and wheezes to have noticed his grabbing of the gun. John's fingers felt around, knowing he only had so long as he was seeing spots in his vision. And finally he felt the relief of cold metal against his fingertips. His hand closed around the handle, and he hesitated for a moment. Was he going to shoot Sherlock?  
No, that was out of question. If he was just acting on something Moriarty did to him, there was hope. So instead, he grunted as he whipped the pistol into Sherlock's head hard enough to send the Detective off to the side. John painfully inhaled, his back arching at the blessed oxygen flooding in. He looked over, seeing Sherlock quite very passed out. But he wasn't going to leave it there, John had to do something about this. He sat up, looking around before his eyes settled on the armchair. He could easily cuff Sherlock to the leg of the chair. Though the man may be coherent enough to lift the chair and simply slide free. So his choice to handle that? Sedating Sherlock.  
Great, what a fantastic day this turned out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Chapters to come! :D


	3. Drugging Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John turns to someone for help on the case of Sherlock, but finds that there is but one person who can handle the Detective. Himself.

Due to Sherlock being passed out and so close to the armchair, John didn’t have to move him much. He took a quick trip to his room, returning with handcuffs and a vial of sterile Amobarbital. Now, Amobarbital was used on Sherlock before as an insomnia agent, as that is the drug’s typical purpose.  Amobarbital, or better known as Amytal Sodium, is used to slow down the activity in the brain and nervous system. John could recall the last time they used this on Sherlock; he hadn’t slept in near a week and dropped dead for the better part of the day. Perhaps the drug was better known as the “Truth Serum” which was both true and not true. It unblocked many things (John actually learned a lot about Sherlock’s past during his rambling prior to passing out) but it also created false stories.

In other words, John was going to have a sleepy and talkative Sherlock on his hands. After cuffing the man to the chair, he filled a syringe to the correct amount and injected it into the vein on the inside of Sherlock’s elbow. His actions remained practiced and even, having put in IVs and injections to people many times before. And then he was left with a small stab wound in his thigh. Knowing Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere for a good while, John limped back to his room and removed his trousers to survey the damage. He had hardly any chance of getting poisoning from the ink; the pen had been in and out of his leg too fast to even give that a worry. He tended to the small wound, finding it aching more than hurting. But, based off all the damage Sherlock took today, his wounds weren’t a problem.

John came back downstairs, finding Sherlock still quite very unconscious in the sitting room with his arm being the only limb extended away to have been cuffed to a chair. John frowned at the plight this had become, moving into the kitchen to find the burner still on from his earlier attempt at making tea. Of course, he turned off the burner and rubbed his temples. Sherlock was a mess, his first instinct was to clean up the man as best as he could, perhaps tend to whatever injury Sherlock sustained on his side. But, despite the dose of heavy sedation Sherlock took, John was not comfortable confronting him right now. In fact, quite the opposite. He grabbed his walking stick, deciding on an integral walk to clear his mind.

He left the flat after another run in with Mrs. Hudson. She instantly bombed John with more questions, curious as to what happened with all the noise upstairs. John simply stated that Sherlock had been drunk and he finally put the man to bed. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t believe Sherlock to be drunk this early; John found it a likely possibility. Nonetheless, he entered the streets of London with no set path to take. He wanted to handle this alone, getting anyone else involved would be reckless. However…there was one man who could handle Sherlock better than he. And John would take that risk.

He pulled out his cell, phoning Mycroft Holmes.

“John, how nice it is to hear from you.” Mycroft answered, his tone making him sound all too distracted to even be on the phone right now.

“I need your help.” John grasped his attention almost instantly.

“What is it, my dear man? Don’t tell me it’s Sherlock.” Mycroft grumbled out his last line. John found himself sitting on the steps up to 221B, as he was too nervous about Sherlock escaping to actually go for a walk.

“Why else would I call?” John’s reply earned a groan from Mycroft. “I promise I’m not calling just to tattle or complain, I actually have a bit of an issue.” He added, making sure Mycroft stayed hooked.

“What has he gotten into?” Mycroft cut to the chase.

John couldn’t possibly tell Mycroft-the man who was better referred to _as_ the British Government- that Sherlock went on a killing spree. But he felt there were a few facts he could still disclose. After all, who knew Sherlock better but his brother? Mycroft _should_ know how to work Sherlock and where the Detective’s reset button was, for lack of a better term.

“Moriarty did something…must have played into Sherlock’s mind. Either way, Sherlock’s acting rather crazy. He, uh, well he tried to attack me.” Because saying “kill” would be a bit extreme. “I have him sedated and fine now, but I don’t know what to…do with him.” John chuckled nervously, “I don’t know what to do with Sherlock Holmes.” As if he ever did know.

There was a pause on the line before Mycroft inhaled slowly. “So you are telling me my brother is acting like a Consulting _Criminal_ and trying to kill you?”

“Hurt me, not kill. But…yes.”

“And you expect me to tell you how to stop this?” Mycroft asked rather sarcastically. “John, I know my brother, but not this well. If he’s acting like Jim, I can assure you I haven’t an idea how to fix him.” There was another pause. “Have you tried turning him off and on again?”

John chuckled, saying his good-byes and hanging up at that point. Fantastic, not even the British Government knew what to do with Sherlock Holmes. John used his walking stick to get back to his feet. He walked back up the steps, entering the flat with a sigh and moving up the stairs. Sherlock was still on the ground, he hadn’t moved an inch since John had last been there. John sighed, easing onto the couch across from Sherlock. He picked up a newspaper, finding it near a week old but still unread by him. John flipped it open, not finding much interest in actually reading. No, he was just passing the time.

“John?” A voice croaked quietly near an hour later. John had been dozing off, his paper closed in his lap. His eyes opened and he looked down at Sherlock. The other was leaning up against the front of the armchair. During John’s light slumber, the man probably had spent all that time just trying to prop himself up. John watched, quiet for a moment, Sherlock seemed to be having much trouble even keeping his head up.

“I’ve administered a drug to help you relax, don’t fight it.” John urged calmly, watching Sherlock. The other groaned, letting his head fall back and using the chair cushion as a pillow of sorts.

“You drugged me.” Sherlock slurred out, trying to raise his free hand (and failing).

“Somebody had to.” John tossed the paper aside, standing up with a sigh and moving to stand above Sherlock. The other didn’t raise his head, only looked with his eyes. “Sherlock, I know you’re a bit out of it, but you have to listen to me, okay?” John decided to go on a convincing route for now. He crouched down, reaching a hand to secure on the back of Sherlock’s head, tilting it up so their eyes met. Sherlock tried to fight the touch, but was obviously too weak to do so. In fact, his eyes were closing already. “Hey, listen to me. Just a moment.” John used his free hand to tap Sherlock’s already bruised cheek. The other inhaled sharply, eyes slowly coming back open. “Good, okay. Sherlock, hey, look at me. You’re not Moriarty, what you’ve done was not you, okay? And we can fix you, we’ll make it better.”

Sherlock took extreme effort to raise his hand, it came to gently cup the side of John’s neck.  With even more effort, he leaned forward, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I don’t want to get better.” He remarked, leaving John speechless.

And then Sherlock collapsed to the side, giving into the drug and leaving John crouched before the chair with a paled face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up! I do hope you enjoyed, more where this came from!


	4. A Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To John's surprise, Mycroft stops by to find out exactly what has happened with his brother.

 

Often seen in Terminal illness cases, one faced with a situation they could not escape came to bring them to become. Stage four lung cancer, for example. Less than ten percent survive five years with it. And why does John compare Sherlock’s situation to that? Because Jim was a cancer, growing on Sherlock, consuming him. And though it was highly unlikely Sherlock would die from this, he would most certainly become it. And what did that leave John with? Nothing, yet again a life with Sherlock gone, thanks to Jim Moriarty.

But the Army Doctor would not take defeat so easily. Maybe Mycroft wasn’t going to help, but he could find another way. It was as simple as Sherlock just being a tad bit _out of it_ , right? John would suspect Sherlock only needed some sense knocked into him. The Doctor rose from the ground, still looking down at the heap of a Detective before exhaling sharply and turning away. Sherlock, assuming he did not fight the drug, would be out easily for the rest of the day. And John needed to make the best of this time. He wasn’t going anywhere; he wouldn’t even be coherent enough to try before John sedated him again. But…it did raise the question, would Sherlock cooperate better without the drugs? He let that question sink to the back of his mind, instead focusing on what would help.

The two greatest minds of London were now stuck in one single head of a massive killer and John Watson had no damn idea where to begin. He finally got that cup of tea, though. A stabilizing substance that John would enjoy at the kitchen table over a paper he was never really reading anyways. It felt nice though, felt normal. A silent flat other then the soft blows against the steaming tea to cool it down before reaching warm lips as a paper was mulled over. John was considering that perhaps withholding the severity of the situation to Mycroft was a wrong choice. But then again, John was not dealing with Sherlock. He was dealing with Moriarty and Mycroft might not know what to do with that.

So to hear the soft creaking of steps accompanied by light tapping of an umbrella against the floors, John finally gave up on ever finding out the news of a week ago and stood up to walk into the Sitting room just as Mycroft did. “You came.” A bit of a breathless statement, he didn’t expect Mycroft to actually want to see for himself. Well, then again…

“Of course I’ve come; he is my brother after all.” Mycroft approached the heap, giving a look of disapproval. “You’ve drugged him?”

“Had to,” John nodded his head, approaching and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets in the process. He stood beside Mycroft, both looking down and John silently thanking the other for coming. And Mycroft appeared to withhold from accusing John on drugging his brother, he saw the reason behind it. John should have mentioned what Sherlock had done, rather than have Mycroft look down at the bloody mess.

“Do you know where he put the body?” Mycroft was straightforward, it concerned John. The Doctor looked over, mouth agape that Mycroft was not more concerned about Sherlock himself and rather worried about who had been killed. But now that John thought about it, it seemed logical. Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere, who he hurt was a larger concern at the moment. John cleared his throat, looking back at Sherlock.

“He was very clear on there being more than one body, told me that he didn’t leave any bodies or clues to be found.” John responded, looking over at Mycroft.

“Hmm, I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that.” Mycroft’s facial expression shifted to that of a frown when the figure below gave signs of struggle to become conscious once again. He crouched down, setting aside his umbrella and using the now free hand to cradle Sherlock’s face as the Detective’s eyes flickered open. “Dear brother, what have you done to yourself…?” John knew that tone Mycroft used, one of a concerned brother. One he had once spoken in when Harriet hurt herself on tumbling down a hill. He crouched down as well, both men looking at the broken soul before them. And Sherlock was looking back, albeit weakly. “What have you administered, John?” Mycroft’s voice came back to its normal volume as he looked over at the Doctor.

“Amobarbital.” John stated simply, looking over.

“That’s a heavy drug to use!” Mycroft exclaimed, still unaware of precisely all that happened. Well, this was John’s chance to enlighten him.

“It was all I had on hand and Sherlock tried to kill me. Near succeeded, actually.” John replied steadily, still holding Mycroft’s gaze. That reply blanked Mycroft’s features and he looked back down, pulling his hand away and letting Sherlock’s head fall back to the ground.  

“I will stay the night here, John, if you do not mind. I’d like to keep an eye on my brother and figure this out when he comes to. When…do you think he will be conscious enough to hold conversation?” Mycroft stood back up, John following along with.

“Awhile yet, I did not expect him to come to even now. He’s..fighting the drug, which will wear him out further. However, when he can speak, I cannot promise that he won’t-“

“Lie. Yes. I know Sherlock and the drug you have given him, I will know what stories are false and what are not. I will work the truth from my brother.” Mycroft turned to John, flashing a small but promising smile before he was moving to the kitchen. “Made some tea, have you?” A strike for conversation, John didn't reply. Mycroft would find the kettle still on the stove; John was more or less distracted by the one below. Sherlock looked at peace. He hated seeing that it took a drug for this. Many times before, in the War, he had seen that it took this extreme for men to find the peace of sleep. And now Sherlock was no more than a soldier looking for a break-through John’s eyes, anyways.

With the thought not longer wanting to be thought, he set it aside and turned on his heel to enter the kitchen where Mycroft was stirring sugar into his tea. “I want Sherlock out of those clothes and cleaned up, he’s a disaster.” Mycroft started as if this was something he had faced before. John felt almost curious at it, _had_ Mycroft been through something similar to this before with Sherlock? “And I want him in bed, not cuffed to a chair in your sitting room.” John’s lips parted, a bad habit having him wanting to correct Mycroft in saying that the sitting room was not actually his.

“You will have to help me move him, then. He…stabbed my leg with a pen.” That broke a laugh from Mycroft.

“Is that so? He’s always rather creative in using what objects he can. Once tossed a lamp at me, lucky him that I caught it or mum would have been furious.”

That was a lighthearted tone that put John at ease. Mycroft would fix this. He would fix Sherlock. Both men sat down at the table where John’s neglected tea was taken up and finally finished. “I’m…curious. Have you dealt with him like this before?” John asked after a moment, earning a pretentious look from Mycroft.

“To this magnitude? No. He’s come home drunk before, covered in his own blood and passed out on the floor.” The answer was short and silenced John from asking anything more. Near ten minutes (and a quiet groan from the sitting room) went by before John was taking their cups to the sink and walking back into the room with Mycroft. His hand slipped into the pocket of his trousers before he crouched down, uncuffing the cuff around the chair leg. Mycroft pulled off his suit jacket, probably something that would have been too stiff for lifting a limp deadweight to his room.

It took both men to lift the groaning and mumbling mess into a sitting position. Each of Sherlock’s arms were draped around a shoulder (with dangling cuffs down John’s chest from Sherlock’s hand) and they had him off the ground. Not much was said, they were focused on getting up to Sherlock’s room. And once there, Mycroft wasn’t very kind in gently setting Sherlock onto the bed. It went for more of a throwing action, first removing himself from under Sherlock’s arm before going to grab his torso to push.

“No, it’s-it’s alright.” John spoke up before the man reeking of salty iron (more specifically, blood) could be tossed from his hold. He leaned over, being much more gentle in putting Sherlock onto the bed. And then he stood tall with his hands moving to his hips in a sort of consideration on what to do next.

“We can cuff him to the bedpost if that suits your fancy.” Mycroft offered in a way that had John paling. He looked over, shaking his head.

“I’m hoping we can work some sense into him before the drug wears off and we have a lot of time to do that. I can defend myself if he tries again.” With that, John moved forward to grab Sherlock’s hand and pull it from under the face-down man, completely removing the cuffs and tossing them to the nightstand.

“Help me get this bloodstained mess from him, please.” Mycroft rolled Sherlock to his back by his shoulders before turning to find another shirt. John moved closer, hands stumbling to unbutton the purple shirt. God, not somewhere he wanted to be right now. Pulling a shirt covered in someone’s blood from the unconscious Sherlock while Mycroft was searching for something else to put on him.

“Hello?” A voice called up from the sitting room. John’s head snapped up to the doorway before looking over at Mycroft. The man gestured with an incline of his chin, telling John to go deal with it. The Doctor moved off the bed, sparing one last glance at Sherlock. The Detective with dim blood dried on his chest with a shirt parted and, somehow, it was a sight John didn’t mind to see. Minus the blood, perhaps. He cleared his throat, stepping out of the room and heading down to the sitting room.

“Oh, Greg Lestrade. Hello.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, more to come. I apologize for slow Chapters, I am a busy guy so they tend to come by slowly. Sorry about that! :D [Also I am dedicating this Chapter to a good friend of mine who shall remain nameless. She keeps me motivated.]


	5. Deduce the Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things tense up around the flat when Greg shows up. The Yard is catching on and they want Sherlock on the case, Mycroft steps up to keep them off Sherlock's tracks. And John is left alone with the Consulting Detective. Or Consulting Criminal, rather.

Unexpected visits were possibly the worst for John. Not because he didn’t like company, but because he hated feeling unprepared. For example, no tea had been made. It was nearing dinner as well, and nothing had even been considered in the mess of trying to get Sherlock down and tucked away. Of course, it wasn’t very nice having visitors (from the Yard) after drugging and cuffing his flat-mate to a bed. The thought looming in his mind had John looking over the sitting room for evidence. The pen on the ground, one he hadn’t picked up, blood still on it. A gun on the ground as well. He hadn’t even tried to get things tucked away.

The advantage to this was that Sherlock was always making a mess and throwing strange things about. John was put at relief when Greg looked over the Sitting room but didn’t really pay any mind to anything in it before returning his attention to John.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

Oh. Oh no. John blanked his expression instantly, just as he had learned to do when faced in situations as such. Not that he had been in this exact scenario before. This was new, but there had been similar situations where he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. John inclined his head a bit, one hand clenching into a fist.

“Asleep, actually.” True, enough so to make John offer a small smile. Greg seemed all but interested at that reply, moving past John and into the kitchen. He walked towards the dining table, and John was lingering just behind him.

“Go wake him. We’ve got a case that he may be interested in.” Greg took up the paper lying on the table, looking over a week’s past events. John’s lips pressed in a thin line, feeling as if those words never read would be the death of him; he’d have to throw the paper out before it was.

“I’ll let him know the moment he wakes up.” Not thought through, it caught Greg’s attention. The paper was tossed aside and the man turned to face John.

“Sherlock wouldn’t pick sleep over a case. I would wake him. Now.”

“This is the first he has slept in near a week,” that was a major guess, “as a Doctor, I will not pass up this chance just so he can pop onto another streak of missing sleep.”

Greg approached at that, crossing his arms. “This one is more important than him getting some sleep. A mass murderer is rising, near a dozen bodies missing and only a hint of a clue to work with.”

“Just one clue?” He was trying to buy time and hoping that this wasn’t Sherlock behind it all.

“This may be a bit strange to hear…but your name was scratched into the wall of this victim’s home. Actually, every victim’s home.”

No.

Nope.

Delete that thought.

It wasn’t Sherlock. Just some insane killer on the streets. That’s all.

“So, if you don’t mind, I need him awake and figuring this out. You could be in danger.”

John looked down, heart beating just a tad too hard. Why was Sherlock so trained in on him? Focusing each kill to be one step closer to him? Like he was a trophy, and it made John sickened to think of it like that.

“I’ll send him straight to the Yard to meet you when he wakes up.” John looked back up, meeting Greg’s eyes with a steady gaze. “He seriously hasn’t slept in a week, Greg. Don’t you want him awake as possible? Clear mind and all that?”

This would have been the convincing factor had a groan not echoed down to them from Sherlock’s room. Loud and low, just like a bloody call for some growing conflict. Greg flashed a small smile, gesturing to the hallway. “Sleeping Beauty is up, let’s go.”

He was moving before John could think up a clever reply. All that was stuttered out was a small “wait!” Before he was tagging behind Greg up to the room. There was more noise, talking now. John’s throat was closing up in panic, praying the words wouldn’t make sense and that Mycroft would hear their approach enough to cover up Sherlock’s bloody and bruised body before they entered.

A ringing came from Lestrade’s pocket, stopping the man instantly and causing John to bump into him. He watched with wide eyes as the phone was pulled out and answered, straining to listen to the other line. Rushed words. What he did know is it caught Greg’s attention and he was turning away from the direction to Sherlock’s room.

“One body? Yes, give me the address. I’m heading there now, Sherlock will be behind me.” Greg was already walking away before looking over his shoulder and lowering the device to speak to John. “We found a mutilated and burned corpse.  I want Sherlock coming along.” And just like that, Greg was leaving the flat.

How John got that lucky was beyond him. But he took it, moving into the bedroom and looking at Mycroft. The elder brother had heard the exchange, it was obvious by the look on his eyes. “Sherlock’s semi-conscious, but not going anywhere. I’ll tend to Greg, I’m sure I’m much more convincing than you.” Mycroft stood tall from having been leaning over the mumbling mess in bed. John looked down, seeing Sherlock on his side and mostly covered by the sheet on his bed. Mycroft approached, pausing beside John. “Just…keep an eye on him. But I doubt he’ll be doing much.” John only nodded his head at Mycroft’s words, already knowing Sherlock was far too drugged to do much.

And yet again, the Doctor was left alone with Sherlock. He exhaled slowly, approaching the bed and taking a seat that had been pulled near the nightstand. He was sitting on the side Sherlock was facing, the crazed man’s eyes were open and staring blankly ahead.

No movement other than that. Just…Sherlock, finally. John was put at ease by that, watching steadily as the man shifted ever so often in bed. Or tried to do so, anyways. Soon, John himself was struggling against sleep. It had been an overall overwhelming day, and Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere. Chin touching to his chest, he fought to keep his eyes open. No, he couldn’t sleep. John got up with a huff, taking to pacing the room. That was better, but hurt his stiffening leg. He had returned to his seat in near ten minutes. Next, his phone was checked, but Mycroft had made no call and John didn’t dare to mess anything up with a phone call. He trusted that Mycroft Holmes could convince Greg that Sherlock was incapable of coming to the scene this time, not for awhile yet.

He hadn’t realized he nodded off until his entire body felt overwhelmed in heat. Or, more specifically, someone was falling into him. John’s eyes snapped open, a drugged man looming (falling) over him.

“Christ!” John’s hands came up, pushing the deadweight back and standing up just as Sherlock’s knees buckled on the edge of the mattress and he fell back onto the bed with a pained gasp. John closed in, looking down. “Stop trying to move, you’re only making it worse for yourself and I’m not too keen on cuffing you again.” He wouldn’t mind it actually, because this was worse and he wasn’t too comfortable knowing Sherlock was strong enough to continue to fight the slowly dying effects.

“L-Lestrade….case…”

So he had heard? John crossed his arms, looking down and clearing his throat. “It’s you, Sherlock. They’re catching on. Mycroft and I are trying to save your arse so behaving for just one minute couldn’t hurt, alright?” He didn’t expect a reply, and was turning away to return to his sleep when he got one anyways.

“…Alright.”

Well, that was slightly reassuring, anyways. He sat back down, now tingling with far too much adrenaline to even considering nodding off again. He should have gotten Sherlock back to properly lying in bed verses this fallen back with his feet still on the ground. Well, that was what he would have to deal with for the time being. He couldn’t help but feel the word echoing over and over in his mind. Sherlock was being compliant. Was it because he was in deep trouble? Or was there a chance the phase had passed?

“Hey Sherlock? Are you feeling alright?” He spoke up after a moment, again not expecting a reply. It had been a near minute before one was whispered back.

“Drugged.”

That brought a small smile to John’s lips. He nodded his head despite Sherlock not being able to see. “Yes, you are. But I mean…everything else. Are you… _you_?” And that may have been a complex question for the moment, but it was worth a shot.

“Sherlock….Holmes. Consulting…” he trailed off, but John saw his lips moving to finish that thought anyways.

That was hopeful.

“Criminal.”

Or not. His gaze fell, his attention returning to clasped hands. Maybe…maybe they were getting closer. He had been focused on soft fingers, watching how each one moved at just a thought. How amazing, the human mind. So easily distracted as to ignore the soft movements of the bed.

Attention was caught again when longer fingers came into this vision, and John froze on the spot. They moved to his chin, tilting his head up to look at the bruised face looking back down. Sherlock wasn’t carrying himself like usual. He was weak, shoulders slumped down and eyelids drooping.

“John?”

How was he supposed to react to that? As if Sherlock could possibly comprehend the severity of the situation from John’s eyes. The Doctor leaned back, pulling away from the blood tucked under fingernails.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Sherlock.” He felt childish to say that, but it was what he could offer from the fear that Sherlock would turn violent in mere seconds. He had that tendency.

“You think I’m to kill you next.” Simple statement, brought a short and humourless laugh from John.

“You already tried to kill me, you bastard. Stay back.” He warned when Sherlock stepped closer and again reached out his hand. The Doctor leaned back in his chair, absolutely trapped unless he was going to get adventurous and pull a Sherlock with climbing over the furniture.

“Not me, John. Not me.”

That was twice as confusing. John paused with his mouth agape, his eyebrows pulling together. Slow inhale, slow exhale.

“Then who?” He knew the answer. He needed to hear it anyways.

“ _Him._ He’s in-in my head and…there…he-“ Sherlock took a step back, more from violently wavering than anything else. John was up at his Doctor instincts to help. He moved forward, a careful grasp taken to Sherlock’s arms in pushing him back to the bed. He went willingly, lying back down and looking up at John.

“ _Who,_ Sherlock?” John inquired, his jaw set afterwards as he leaned over Sherlock.

To have been running on so little energy, Sherlock was full of surprises. One being a hand flashing up and grabbing a handful of John’s shirt, yanking him down to bring their faces far too close for comfort.

“Stop the spider before he catches the fly.” The hand had fallen, eyelids falling down next. John stood tall slowly, looking up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He had heard it as well, and was looking steadily at John.

“So then, are you ready to spread your wings and run or get tangled in the web?” He asked, completely catching John off guard.

How these two siblings worked their poetry was beyond the Doctor, but he would find an answer regardless.

“I’ve yet to run before, Mycroft.” He commented, moving around the bed and approaching the other. Mycroft exhaled slowly, nodding his head and looking at the limp younger brother.

“Yes, you do have that nasty habit of taking a fight even when it’s too late.” John gave a confused look at this reply.

“What are you saying? It’s not too late for Sherlock, we can help him.”

Mycroft looked over. “Oh, yes, I know that. I’ll see to it that my brother is fixed.”

“So then what’s too late?” John pressed, focused completely on Mycroft.

“You were too late.” 


	6. Walking a Thin Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effects of the drug has worn off and John is now faced with an active and moving killer. Or is it just Sherlock?

Specific confusion was reserved for what Mycroft had said, but John didn’t really want to think over it. For one, he had no idea what he could have _possibly_ been late for. He didn’t cause this in Sherlock! Thinking on something else, he was glad to hear Mycroft would fix Sherlock, that was a comforting thought. Because, with them both looking towards the Detective, John was thinking that this had gone on plenty long enough. He needed Sherlock back. Again.

“If you’re hungry-“

“Do not worry about me, John. I’ll take care of what I need. Please give me some time alone with Sherly.” Mycroft cut in, causing John’s mouth to click closed with a clenched jaw. Offering hospitality to the Holmes’ brothers did appear to end in being rejected somehow. But Mycroft needed a moment, so John nodded his head and slipped from the room.

He wasn’t hungry actually, despite the fact that tea was all he had that day. Just…all the events that had taken place were distracting enough. Looking at his watch, he clicked his tongue. Everything had actually taken place over a matter of two days, and he knew it would be key to eat now. He settled for some bread and jam, considering the flat was near empty of anything else to eat. Sitting at the kitchen table, his ears strained to catch Mycroft’s voice, but found it harder to listen to when he could also hear Sherlock whispering back. Well, it wasn’t necessarily his business, he quit trying out of respect of giving the brothers a moment to themselves. In fact, this was John’s chance to have a bit of privacy. For one, he was exhausted. And he wanted a shower about then.

But there was still the urge to check in on Mycroft and Sherlock before he could tend to himself, and so that was put into play and he returned to the bedroom near twenty minutes later. Leaning against the doorway, John crossed his arms. Mycroft had taken his seat, and was leaning forward in what appeared an intense conversation with someone John thought could hardly talk but moments ago. Well, Sherlock was rapidly coming back to them. Be that for better or for worse. Mycroft stood up, as if on cue, and approached John after one last glance at Sherlock.

“He is still rather exhausted; I need some sleep as well. I trust Sherlock will not be going far, and with that, I request you get some sleep as well. It will be a long day when he’s all the way around.” John was glad to hear this, hoping that it meant Sherlock was doing well enough for Mycroft to trust him alone. After all, the elder brother was moving past John, probably to take to the sofa for sleep.

“You’re welcome to take my bed tonight.” John spoke up after Mycroft, yet again attempting to offer something. Mycroft turned around, smiling.

“Thank you. I’ll sleep there if you don’t mind.”

John nodded his head, moving to show Mycroft up to his room. It was tidy, as always, so nothing for Mycroft to need to be avoiding. Unlike Sherlock’s room, where John had spotted a flask under his bed. He grabbed some extra clothes, leaving Mycroft to the room. Giving another glance in Sherlock’s move, the man hadn’t moved to even look over and John took that as a good sign that he was asleep. With that, he moved into the bathroom.

Upon turning on the shower and pulling off his jumper, he was finding one single thought circling in his mind. _What_ was too late? What did he miss? There was no way he could have…done anything to stop this. Was Mycroft blaming him for not catching Sherlock prior to the Fall? He had no idea! John huffed out a breath, finishing the removal of clothing to finally step under the far too hot water. Felt good, though. Felt like he was burning off the memories of Sherlock trying to attack him. He hadn’t been uncharacteristically strong, Sherlock moved and worked like he would have under those circumstances. It was certainly…overwhelming though, he about killed John. Without single hesitation.

And was it Sherlock or Jim at that point? John would assume the latter, but it didn’t feel that way. Sherlock was almost always in control to some degree. As if he had been indulging in this the entire time. And _why_ carve John’s name at the victim’s homes? His agitation grew until he had to force himself off the train of thought and focus instead on working shampoo into his hair. He had turned away from the stream of water, eyes closed and head tilting back to rinse out the shampoo.

“John.”

His eyes snapped open, stinging instantly at the shampoo lingering there as he looked around. What the…Hell? Was he hearing things or…was Sherlock on the other side of the bloody curtain? He didn’t want to check. He just wanted to finish a shower and one bloody thought without _him_ causing some sort of conflict.

Regardless, he pulled the curtain past to glance into the misted bathroom. A dark (or darkly dressed, rather) figure stood in the center of the bathroom, facing him. Neither spoke, John was waiting for Sherlock’s move.

That being said, he didn’t mean Sherlock stepping towards the shower.

“Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Stay back.” John pulled away, quickly finishing a rinse of his hair before turning off the shower and reaching and hand out to grab a towel.

No towel.

He looked out again, Sherlock standing there and holding the towel in his grasp. John extended his hand towards the towel, watching Sherlock pull back at that motion.

“Give me my towel, Sherlock.”

Now, John was a soldier and a doctor. He had been nude in front of others before, as well as seeing others nude. It wasn’t anything that shocked him at this point. But this was Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes standing there with his towel like he was playing a sort of game.

With some contemplation on the other’s part, he finally stepped forward and handed John the towel. The Doctor let out a groan, pulling back into the shower to dry himself off. And, knowing Sherlock was just on the other side of the curtain, he wrapped the towel around his hips before stepping out.

“Go lie back down, Sherlock. I’ll pop in after I get dressed.” John offered, standing far too close for comfort due to the bathroom being so small.

“No.”

Oh, now he answered. John inclined his head, glad the room was clearing up rather quickly so he could meet Sherlock’s gaze. No, not Sherlock. That was the same look he saw when Sherlock had first arrived in the flat, the look of a killer. In the bathroom, catching a man with his trousers literally off.

“Sherlock, go to-“ He was cut off by hands coming to his shoulders, Sherlock spinning and slamming John’s back to the wall. So much for a behaving Detective. John was actually not that surprised, just very uncomfortable that this was the time Sherlock decided to attack. He let out a startled hiss, his shoulders rolling and his hands coming up to swat away Sherlock’s. “Get out of here.” He kept his voice low, but level. God forbid Mycroft overhear them.

“John.” Yet again, a repeat of his name. Only the tone didn’t fit with the facial expression. Like a Sherlock underneath the mask of a killer. John’s hands came up, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders. God, the man was shaking almost violently.

_Fighting it._

“Sherlock. It’s alright, you’re alr-“

He knew exactly why the punch was angled where it was, hitting just below the location of his stomach and specifically designed to target his Solar Plexus. John cut off, momentarily stunned and enough so to have paralyzed vocal cords. And somehow, during that hit, Sherlock had moved much closer and brought John’s back to the wall yet again.

“Don’t speak or I’ll rip out your vocal cords.” Sherlock hissed, leaning down to bring their faces close together.

John’s mouth was open, but shut at those words, a steady inhale coming through his nose and bringing his lungs to finally take air back in. His wrists were grabbed, hands being pinned above his head. He hadn’t blinked in the last few minutes; his eyes trained on Sherlock like blinking would be all it took to have his life end. He had nothing of use and the loss of his hands had his towel dipping low on his hips.

So what the Hell was Sherlock doing? Just standing there, staring back at John. Their faces had been this close before, but not in for use of intimidation, if that was what Sherlock was trying for. John wasn’t intimidated, no. He was certainly caught off guard, enough so to leave his knees wobbly from the punch. But this…this was the hesitation he didn’t see before. This was Sherlock actually contemplating his next kill.

“Sherlo-“

“What did I say, John? I said don’t speak.” He cut in, going from a still snake to an attacking cobra far too fast. One hand becoming the only thing holding John’s wrists together, he finally looked away when Sherlock’s now free hand came into view. Grabbing his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Sherlock moved closer, pressing dry clothes to John’s still damp chest in touching their foreheads together.

“Don’t-“

“Shut. Up.”

Nothing was said, both were staring at each other. Sherlock was all that he could see, all that he could think or feel actually. Overwhelmingly close and still smelling of blood, Sherlock looked like he was actually intending not to kill John.

And all at once, every single buzzing thought was silenced at warmth overtaking his lips. And not in a gentle manner, in a hungry one. As if Sherlock was simmering his need to kill with his need to _feel._ And he was, too. His free hand moving over the expanse of John’s chest and up his arms before moving to his back, pressing only hard enough to feel each muscle shiver underneath cold fingers. And due to being pinned, there was no pulling away, even if John wanted to. He desperately needed air, needing _something._ Space. Time to think this over. Perhaps some bloody sleep. Not a murderer consuming him.

Dare John say he liked it.

Enough so to give a small whine when Sherlock finally pulled his lips back. John moved his head forward as if to catch them, but was stopped by their foreheads leaning together. Well, he was given the chance to breathe, and he did.

“Sherlock.”

There. And he wasn’t told to shut up. John’s eyes opened, looking to meet the other’s. Was that…a look of defeat?

It must have been. All at once, Sherlock slammed into John and collapsed, pulling the Doctor down with him. John grunted at the sudden change, his arms coming around Sherlock to bring an easier fall. He looked down, tilting the man’s head back to see his eyes were closed. No reason to panic. John took Sherlock’s pulse anyways. Oh, good. Still alive. His heart beating a bit faster than usual and John didn’t want to assume why. He lowered Sherlock to the ground, the man groaning softly before his eyes finally rolled open. He didn’t move, which gave John a chance to stand up and walk to the counter in quickly slipping on his own clothing before pulling the (locked?) door open. He turned back, crouching down and helping Sherlock sit up before bringing him to his feet.

Getting him back to his bed had been a disaster; Sherlock was certainly acting on purpose with making it Hell, too. But finally the man was lowered to his bed. John leaned over, grabbing the sheets to pull up over Sherlock and fighting to ignore the harsh tingling in his lips. He about stood tall again when Sherlock’s hand again snapped up, grabbing his shirt and yanking him down. To avoid actually falling on the bruised mess, John fell over to beside Sherlock, facing the man with a confused look.

“Sherlock, you need sleep.”

“Not tired.”

“I need sleep.” John made a move to get out of the bed, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“Here.”

“No, Sherlock. I’m going to the Sitting room.”

“John, sleep here.”

The Doctor let out a frustrated breath, knowing he wouldn’t convince Sherlock. He lied back, looking up at the ceiling. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to sleep here, it was the tiny fact of Sherlock strangling him while he was asleep. Or Mycroft coming in, although that wasn’t that big of a worry.

“Let me get some sleep.” John turned again to face Sherlock, sliding under the covers as well. Sherlock turned towards him, eyes analyzing as ever.

“Okay.”

Taking it on faith that he wasn’t about to be killed, John closed his eyes. It was actually…rather comfortable. More so than taking the sofa. But not because of that, because…Sherlock was there. It always made John laugh, how his mum used to tell him stories about how, when he had nightmares, he just needed to find something more horrifying to scare them off.

And now he had the most horrifying man in London lying in bed with him.

And he had no nightmares. 


	7. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John awakes with the killer, but finds that the real Sherlock lies just underneath.  
> Literally.  
> [Hello! Small warning, this chapter has a load of smut!]

Falling asleep with a threat was suddenly a lot simpler than waking up to one. For just one simple moment, John thought this was simply just _them._ Or something other than the fact that Sherlock was a cold murderer and John was left having mixed feelings.

They weren’t that bad before. No, it made sense now. It felt as if Sherlock was playing with it. Getting John’s weak spot out in the open and poking at it to get the soldier to do anything he wanted. Well, John would not be won over so easy. Or so he thought, anyways.

For one, waking up with finding out that the distance between them was gone, his first reaction was to jerk away. And he would have succeeded had Sherlock not had a secure arm wrapped around John’s shoulders. They were both on their sides, John more so on his back than Sherlock. In fact, when his eyes finally opened, he was looking up at someone looking down at him. Sherlock was wide awake, shockingly so. In fact, the last time John had seen him this aware was when he was trying to kill John. And that set him on edge, bringing yet another attempt to pull away.

Perhaps avoiding this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

“Shh.” Sherlock whispered, smiling a bit and leaning down to touch their foreheads together.

_Oh. Right._ Yes, he remembered the kiss then. Enough to have him considering going for more. No, this wasn’t Sherlock. His actions were that of a predator tasting their prey. Granted, not an unattractive thought, but one that showed John that this wasn’t Sherlock. That the _real_ Detective would never touch him like this.

“Sherlock…back off.” John whispered weakly, keeping his voice low with the knowledge that Mycroft was asleep and not far off. His hands came up, pressing to Sherlock’s chest in a halfhearted attempt to get the man away. If John was really trying, it would have been possible. Sherlock wasn’t putting up a fight; he was watching to see how John would react.

And he wasn’t pushed away.  

“Good, John. Stay quiet.” Sherlock murmured, moving his free hand to John’s chin and tilting his head up. Exposed neck, the Doctor tensed under the hold. Sherlock ducked down, warmth finding its way over the front of his neck in a soft blowing of warm air. He inhaled, hands turning to fistfuls of shirt.

“Sherlock.” He rasped out a warning, giving a small shove.

The gentle hold of his jaw turned to a whole new level of strength, he was almost positive of his jaw fracturing under Sherlock’s hold. The sudden change was so startling that his legs pulled up, knees bending, an attempt to move his feet to use them in kicking Sherlock back. He didn’t get that luxury when Sherlock rolled atop him.

“S-Fuck.” John’s hand moved to Sherlock’s wrist, short thumbnail digging in at the tendon on Sherlock’s wrist.  His grip was lost on John and the Doctor pulled away instantly, but didn’t get far when he was in the same situation as before- hands pinned above his head with Sherlock looming over him.

“Be quiet. Don’t want my brother to find you playing with me, do you?”

That silenced John instantly, not because he didn’t want Mycroft walking in, but because that voice wasn’t Sherlock’s. But the look in his eyes…the horrific struggle this man placed as if his mind was raging a war with his body. The Doctor watched with wide eyes when one hand was pulled away, moving to John’s chest. Gentle, calculating, moving lower.

“Sherlock, no. Stop. Stop it.” John moved to shake the hand that was gliding down his stomach. This was too much. He shook the hold on his wrists, pushing up and spinning their positions to straddle Sherlock and pin down his hands at his sides. “This isn’t you.” John whispered, looking down at the other looking up with wide eyes. “What?” Probably shouldn’t have taken that bait. “You look surprised. You’re toying with a soldier, Sherlock. I’m stronger than you’d think.”

That brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips. Something that was more of a snarl than actual enjoyment at John’s words. “I know.” He hummed in a tone that had John’s hands loosening a bit in shock. It was just so…practiced. So perfect. _A moan._

It was a distraction. Hands were on his hips, bruising holds keeping him straddling the Detective. John didn’t speak, not like words had worked on Sherlock before. His hands went over Sherlock’s, originally an attempt to get the hands off his hips but turning into more or a steady hold when Sherlock pulled him down, the Detective’s hips rolling up to meet John’s.

No, Sherlock was trying to distract him. John shook over the overwhelming pleasure he had just felt, leaning forward to grab Sherlock’s biceps in a tightened grip of his own. He leaned close, purely for adding some sort of intimidating tone.

“Back down, Sherlock. Don’t start this.” He spoke lowly, forcing his words to sound much like a snarl. Sherlock scoffed, one hand moving to the back of John’s neck to pull him into a bruising kiss.

“No. Be quiet John. I know how you like to get vocal.” Sherlock hissed against his lips, a hand sinking inwards from his hip. John inhaled sharply, his hand catching Sherlock’s and pulling it away.

“Stop.” That was more of a defeated request, knowing that Sherlock would get his way if he kept trying. Because, yes, this was John’s weak spot. _Sherlock_ was his weak spot.

“Stop talking or I won’t be as kind as I was last time.” He warned, shaking his hand free of John’s hold.

John sat up, thinking that he had a chance to roll off.  Both hands were back on his hips, rolling them again together. He looked down at movement, not sure how he felt when Sherlock’s hands were again moving in. Not stopped this time.

Watching his trousers be unbuttoned. Watching the zipper slide down and become the only noise in the room other than his breathing and Sherlock’s small breaths. His hands twitched forward, gracing over Sherlock’s to stop them but failing in the act. He…couldn’t stop Sherlock.

He didn’t want to stop Sherlock.

Of course, the Detective obviously had no intentions of making this simple. He was taking his time, gracing his palm over the growing tent in John’s trousers. John swallowed hard, leaning back down and finding that Sherlock was just as eager to make that kiss reality. This was more comfortable, a distraction from just sitting there and watching Sherlock do this.

Unmistakably, he was met with a heated hand sliding into his pants, long fingers wrapping around his length and gently pulling it out to the cooler air of the room. He moaned slightly into Sherlock’s mouth, making a mess of their tongues fighting together.

There was more of an uncomfortable wave of pain with realizing that what was a bruising hold on his jaw was now a hand gently holding a rather sensitive part of his body. John was tempted to speak up and tell Sherlock to not do anything rash, but he knew better than to speak at that point. Sherlock was being…gentle, for lack of a better word. John’s eyes came open after a moment, finding Sherlock suddenly…unresponsive? He looked down at the other, seeing wide and gentle eyes looking up at him.

Was that…?

…It was!

That wasn’t the look of a killer! That was Sherlock Holmes looking up at him!

Oh. _Oh God._

That was Sherlock Holmes looking up at him. And holding his dick in hand.

John’s own eyes opened wider, looking back at the other. And though this was horrifying, to say the least, he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining it or if this was really an almost different personality.

“John.”

No. This was Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” John exhaled softly, almost still concerned that he was about to speak and lose a rather important part of his body. But there was no reaction, at least not a dangerous one. Sherlock’s free hand moved to John’s cheek, cupping it. “S-Sherlock.” John’s lips pulled up in a smile before he turned his head towards Sherlock’s palm, placing a soft kiss before slipping a moan at Sherlock’s other hand suddenly in motion and giving one long pull over his erection.

He had no idea what was happening, but it was becoming what was a brief sign of clarity. This wasn’t struggle like before, the hard shaking only steadied by bruising holds. This was _completely_ Sherlock! Each pull and soft twist of his erection was precise, thought out as if knowing exactly what would give John the most blinding pleasure. His hands were on either side of Sherlock’s head, his hips moving steady when they had a chance to slip into Sherlock’s hand. Trying to increase the pace, as it were.

“John.”

God. Hearing his name mumbled from those lips in this situation. He opened his eyes again, met with sparkling and clear eyes looking back up at him. He couldn’t look away, finding himself entirely transfixed on the being below him. But there was something, and John caught it in that brief moment. Almost a look of panic from Sherlock. He was trying to tell John. Well, not exactly the best time but this was the first chance that he had actually seen the clever light in the man’s eyes since the incident.

“You’ll get the monster out of my mind.” Sherlock whispered, smirking afterwards. “You’ll save me. Right?”

And though that may have not exactly been arousing at the exact moment, this may have been his only chance to speak to the Detective on it. “Yes.” John breathed out, nodding his head. “I’ll save you.”

That must have been Sherlock’s cue, as his free hand moved to the back of John’s neck to pull him down for a gentle kiss along his neck, bringing lips to his jawline before meeting his own lips. And then Sherlock’s hand was moving again, gliding much easier after a thumb swiped over the head of John’s erection in moving the leaking pre over his length. He was a moaning mess at that point, only remembering to stay quiet from little hushes from Sherlock’s lips against his ear.

Yes. John was vocal.

 And when Sherlock’s pace changed from exploratory to looking forward to the end point, his movements fast and pulling at John’s erection, the Doctor muffled his moans with his lips against Sherlock’s neck, turning from kisses to small little bites along the soft skin there.

“Sh-Sherlock.”

It was a prompting for Sherlock to push him over the edge, as he was insanely close. And, just on cue, the Detective brought his lips back to John’s ear and rolled out a low moan. That was followed by the Doctor inhaling sharply and pushing his hips forward into Sherlock’s hand, his body rolling into an orgasm and sending come over Sherlock’s shirt.

John’s first thought was that Mycroft would notice when Sherlock was wearing a different shirt by morning. But, upon realizing that now _really_ was not the moment he wanted to consider how Sherlock’s brother would take this, he turned his attention to the one below him, feeling Sherlock gently putting him away and zipping his trousers back up.

“Sherlock?” He panted out in a whisper, looking from the hands on his trousers back to the eyes on his features.

“Yes, John?”

“Are you…still you?” Perhaps a bit of an ignorant question, his mind was insanely clouded from the post-orgasm and he was hoping it was good enough for the Detective to catch onto.

“Being…with you...makes me feel me again.” A slow reply, a steady confession.

Heartwarming.

John took Sherlock’s hands pulling away as a cue to roll off, and he did so. Feeling rather awkward in his pants, the erection still fading, he would have loved to take a shower about then.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” He looked over, seeing the other moving to turn towards him after pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside.

“Keep your promise.”

Again, his mind was a bit foggy, he didn’t think through his reply very much.

“What promise was that?”

“Your promise to save me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fantastic! Liked the first chapter? I would love feedback! Also, many more chapters coming, they are still in production as of now.


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